Night of clouds terror of their flight across the moon. Over the long still plains blows a wind out of the north; a laden wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks menacingly and loud.

 Black as old blood on the cold plain close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons swaying shrouded crowds and their rustle in the knife-keen wind is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass.

(Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)

Huge, of grinning brass steaming with fresh stains their God gapes with smudged expectant gums above the plain.

Flicker through the flames of the wide maw rigid square bodies of men opulence of childbearing women slimness of young men, and girls with small curved breasts.

 (Loud as musketry rattles the sudden laughter of the dead.)

Thicker hotter the blood drips from the cold brass lips.

Swift over grainless fields swift over shellplowed lands ever leaner swifter darker bay the hounds of the dead, before them drive the pale ones white limbs scarred and blackened laurel crushed in their cold fingers, the spark quenched in their glazed eyes.

 Thicker hotter the blood drips from the avenging lips of the brass God;       (and rattling loud as musketry the laughter of the unsated dead).

 The clouds have blotted the haggard moon. A harsh wind shrills from the cities of the north Ypres, Lille, Liège, Verdun, and from the tainted valleys the cross-scarred hills. Over the long still plains the wind out of the north rattles the leaves of the liveoaks.

 Cuatro Caminos

XV

The weazened old woman without teeth who shivers on the windy street corner displays her roasted chestnuts invitingly like marriageable daughters.

 Calle Atocha

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